


The Toss

by distractionpie



Series: JeanMarco Revival 2019 [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (It's their wedding but they get two whole words of dialogue between them), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, Jean Kirstein Is an Idiot, Jean is an emo bastard, M/M, Minor Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Mutual Pining, Wedding, Ymir is one step away from beating him with the feelings stick until he sorts himself out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: Never underestimate a bride.Jean has had a crush on Marco since forever, but he's never thought selfishly wanting more was a good enough reason to push his luck and gamble their friendship — no matter how frustrated everyone around them has become by his refusal to act.Does it still count as catching it if the bouquet hits you in the face at 40mph and falls apart on impact?





	The Toss

Jean had first realised he wanted to kiss Marco when they were thirteen. Now they're nearly thirty and the wanting has increased exponentially but so have the risks because with every year he’s grown more aware of the damage he’d likely do by casting aside their friendship in favour of a potentially unwanted move or worse, succeeding and starting something with Marco only to ruin it all by breaking up.

What they have now is good. And what they have now is safe. Jean’s not too proud to admit to himself that he’s a coward, at least about this. Bravery is for people with nothing to lose.

And Jean could never lose Marco.

They’re best friends and that’s too good to risk. Not as a middle schooler discovering attraction for the first time and realising that Marco, with his freckles and smiles and shiny hair, was as cute as he was cool. Not growing up as they'd gone to every school dance together because, as Jean had insisted countless times to his mother, it was the twenty-first century and friends could do that without it being weird — and if his mother thought anything of the hours he spent in front of a mirror while getting ready or the shoe-box hidden under his bed that overflowed with corsages he'd bought and then bottled out of giving, she'd never commented. Not in college when he’d been prone to thinking with his dick and going half mad because they’d finally broke free of the awkward clutches of adolescence and Marco, who’d already got off lightly with minimal acne and weird growth spurts as a teen, had settled into broad shoulders and an ass you could bounce a penny off and Jean had developed a recurring dream about climbing him like a tree.

And now as real, settled adults at Krista and Ymir’s wedding.

It’s still weird to Jean that his peers are getting married when the longest relationship he's managed to hold down was six months in college that had ended in accusations of cheating which hadn't been true but he also hadn't been able to contradict because all the evidence ("You can't go an hour without either talking to Marco or about him", "You cancelled our anniversary date to bring him soup because he had a cold", "You look at him like he hung the moon") was true, it was just the conclusion that only happened in his dreams. Not that anybody could blame his exes for not sticking around when it was blatantly obvious to everyone other than the man himself that Jean was helplessly in love with Marco. Truth be told there were times when he wondered how Marco could not have seen it, began to question if the apparent obliviousness every time his feeling slipped wasn't Marco's way of brushing him off gently, but no, Marco was too honest for that. If he wanted to try and shut down the foolish hope Jean's common sense couldn't quash in his heart, Marco would be direct about it.

Still, there were no two better people to drag him into a church for the first time since grade school — Ymir and Krista are made for each other.

But the sight of Marco suited and smiling at the altar beside them as they say their vows made Jean’s chest ache with how badly he wished he was standing there too, not as another best man, but to share those words with Marco himself.

He’s been social, he’s congratulated both brides and danced with various friends — and if he’d happened to always have a partner when Marco was free and only let himself go unspoken for during those times when somebody was already monopolising Marco, well, to those who didn’t know better they’d surely just see a coincidence caused by a busy wedding and those who knew his situation ought to admire his restraint, because dancing with Marco when love was so thick in the air would have been leaving himself far too vulnerable to making a dangerous slip.

Jean has definitely used up his tolerance for being the awkward single guy at such a sappy affair though. He’d smiled through the ceremony and let the good food counteract the annoyance of being seated among swooning couples at dinner. The speeches had been harder: Krista had declined to invite her father which had meant at least there were no torturous paternal lectures; Ymir had elected to speak for herself and that had had been an entertaining enough; but the real struggle had been Marco’s all too heartfelt best man speech about the importance of care and support and the joys of seeing Krista and Ymir’s relationship grow from an unexpected friendship to the beautiful love they were sharing with their friends today, made all the more agonising by the fact he’d admitted beforehand to being nervous about giving such an important speech in front of so many people but he’d apparently taken Jean’s reminder that he’d be speaking in front of friends as a cue to cope with his audience by focusing in on somebody who didn’t make him nervous, namely Jean, with an earnest intensity that would have made it all too tempting for Jean to delude himself that the heartfelt words were meant for him.

But they weren’t and after his speech Marco had turned his gaze away from Jean again.

So Jean had decided to stage a retreat before his teeth fell out from all the second hand sweetness. There’s a musicians' gallery above the main room, disused because Ymir and Krista have gone the DJ route for their entertainment, that means Jean can avoid the crowds or anybody trying to force yet more cheerful conversation from him, but can still see enough of what’s going on at the main party that if anybody asks him later he’ll be able to supply enough details to fend off accusations of bailing out on the party early.

People watching is far more enjoyable than being down in the throng. It’s not like he had anybody to bring as a plus one but he still wishes he’d bought one as all of his friends are either in the wedding party and therefore too busy for more than a passing nod, or have their own dates to keep them occupied. And it would bad etiquette for Jean to take advantage of the open bar to have a breakdown about how he’s going to die alone, but there’s not much else to occupy him.

Of course, that’s when the music stops and the DJ announces that it’s time for the bouquet toss.

Well, Jean can keep it together a little longer for the free show.

Krista and Ymir are at the top table, and several women immediately crowd nearly. Jean assumes they must be plus-ones of invited guests since anybody who actually knew they happy couple would be aware that for somebody so tiny Krista is incredibly athletic and her bouquet will definitely be thrown more than a mere handful of feet.

Sure enough, she pulls her arm up to throw overarm and when she releases the flowers spin far over the heads of the foolish girls clustered around the table.

Jean watches the arc, Krista had clearly aimed for where the biggest cluster of her friends are and it lands square in the centre of the knot of them. For a moment he can’t see where it lands, they’re all standing too close, but a moment after the cheer goes up he sees the flowers raised above everybody’s head, gripped tightly in a broad, freckled hand.

It’s just a silly wedding game. The sight of Marco with an armful of flowers as their friends grin at him shouldn’t make Jean’s blood turn to ice.

But Marco is a serial monogamist, Jean doesn't think he's ever had a relationship that lasted less than a year, he couldn't do casual if he tried and, catcher of the bouquet or not, sooner or later one of his partners is going to be The One. Superstition is for idiots, but this feels like an omen. Should he be setting a mental countdown now? Could Marco’s current boyfriend be a risk of proposing? Especially if Marco comes home with stories of catching the bouquet to inspire him. Was this the moment Jean lost him forever? Skulking on a balcony and unable to stop Marco from catching the thing that would doom their friendship.

“Yeet!”

“Ymir!”

Jean turns towards the brides at the sudden yells, wondering what’s happening now, but he only gets a momentary glimpse of Ymir’s grin and Krista’s wide-eyes before his vision is obscured by a blur of green and white.

Then…

“Ow! Fuck!”

The blur hits him square in the face, bouncing off to land at his feet.

He blinks, dazed and confused by how much his face stings, then glances down at the projecting, squinting for a moment before he recognises the bedraggled mess of now broken stems and crushed petals.

Two brides, two bouquets.

Ymir has bestowed her ‘blessing’ on Jean.

That bitch!

The way the room is lit, he’s fairly sure that the people down below can’t see how hard he’s glaring at her, though he suspects Ymir doesn’t need to see Jean to know how pissed she’d just made him.

Part of him is tempted to leave the flowers on the ground, to stomp the last of the life out of them as he walks away as a fuck you to Ymir for throwing it at him in blatant mockery, but it's her wedding day and Jean is not going to be the guy who starts a fight with her on today of all days. He stoops, grabbing the steps and then finches.

Of course Ymir's roses wouldn't be de-thorned.

Shifting his grip so he’s holding the band of ribbon wrapped just below the blooms, if he bleeds on it that’s Ymir’s own fault for attacking him with the damn thing anyway, he leaves the gallery.

Part of him is drawn to the bar, fuck knows he’s got sorrows enough to drown, but there’ll also be other people there, friends who’ll tease and encourage in equal turn, not realising that every step of this day has been a stab to his heart reminding him of a happiness he can’t have. No. What Jean needs right now is to be alone with his misery, just like he’s going to be for the rest of the life.

Instead, a short walk down the halls brings him to a fire escape he’d passed by earlier and, after a quick glance to check that it’s not alarmed (even pissed as he is, he doesn’t want to risk accidentally triggering sprinklers on everybody), pushes his way out onto the quiet and the darkness of the roof.

While the sun was high, the day could easily have been mistake for being in late summer, crisp air warm but not uncomfortably so, light casting the foliage around the venue into coppers and golds. But the sun set hours ago, and without it the onset of fall is undeniable.

Jean shivers as he picks his way across the tiles, but there’s no way he’s going back into the party to rescue his jacket from whichever table he’d abandoned it when Sasha had dragged him into a turn across the dance floor. Find a gap in the guttering, he sits, legs hanging over the edge into the darkness and sighs.

If he stays away too long, somebody will come looking for him. Especially after Ymir compromised his 'avoiding everyone but still around' hiding place. But he needs to compose himself. Wallowing in the concept of his future misery is a pointless self-indulgence that is only ruining his ability to enjoy what should be a happy occasion. It’s not fair to avoid his friends just because he’s not in the mood to take a joke even though he knows they mean no harm; he owes it to Marco not to be a shitty friend just because Jean is dreading losing him; and Krista deserves him appreciating the wedding she’s put so much effort into planning, though Ymir can go fuck herself right now.

Now if only he could convince his stupid heart to pull it together like he knows he ought to.

Jean sighs, glaring out into the darkness and yanking the flowers apart in a mocking game of effeuiller la marguerite, skipping half the steps to leave himself with a vicious litany of ‘he loves me not, he loves me not’ as he tries to accept his fate, each petal that swirls away into the darkness a reminder that it would take a far bigger miracle than a bouquet for Jean to be the next of their friends to attain domestic bliss.

There are a handful of stars glimmering in the sky, but even if one were to fall right now, Jean can’t think of a wish that could make him happy. For Marco to love him back? Not if it wasn’t by Marco’s own free choice. For Marco to stay alone forever so that nobody could steal his attention from Jean? What a cruel fate to wish upon a friend. His best hope would be for some way to harden his heart against his doomed feelings, but he’s already spent years trying to do that and it seems beyond the power of even wishes.

A blast of heated air alerts him that the door onto the roof has been opened behind him, he turns, bristling at the intrusion on his escape, but then he recognises the silhouette and his shoulders slump.

Marco.

Of all the people to follow him up here.

Part of Jean is glad for his company, feels a tiny thrill at the thought Marco might have come looking for him, but right now that’s dwarfed by the dread and frustration at having to deal with his friend before he’s found a way to get his own feelings back under control.

“Hey,” he calls out, resigned to whatever fate bestows upon him. The brief rush of warmth Marco brought with him has shattered Jean’s defences against the cold and his teeth chatter a little around the word as the breeze whistles around the crevices of the rooftop.

Marco frowns at him. “Where’s your jacket? It’s freezing. Here,” he says, already shrugging his tux jacket off his shoulders, but Jean waves the offer away.

“Don’t be an ass,” he scoffs. “Then you’d be cold.” 

“Neither of us will be cold we were inside,” Marco counters. “What are you doing out here? Is everything okay?”

Of course, he’d see right through Jean’s attitude. He’s probably been suspicious of Jean’s mood all day, storming off just being the final straw needed for him to ditch his best man's duties and come call Jean out on behaving like a selfish dick on what ought to be a happy day.

Jean bites his lip, uncertain of what justification he can offer for his behaviour. He wants to explain to Marco that he wants what Ymir and Krista have, that settling down is a dream, but that’s only true if the person he’s with is Marco and since it can’t be Marco, there’s nothing to tell. “I’m fine, it’s just that weddings make me maudlin apparently,” he concludes. “Fuck, shouldn’t you be down their dancing with some of Krista’s cousins who practically creamed themselves when they saw that it was you who’d caught the bouquet.”

“You caught a bouquet too,” Marco says, ignoring Jean’s irritable crassness. “You should be down there, you might feel better with company.”

“Nailed in the face by is not the same as caught,” Jean argues. “And nobody wants to dance with a guy who’s going to bleed on them.”

“You’re hurt?” Marco gasps, as if Jean might have been mortally wounded instead of just grazed.

“It’s nothing,” Jean holds up his index finger, still sluggishly bleeding where he’d caught it on a particularly deep thorn. It could use a band aid to keep him from making a mess, but the flow is already slowing down on his own so he can’t be bothered to go find one. “Just count yourself lucky, being the one Krista threw hers at.” Marco probably already does. He’s the type who’d hold the bouquet and feel hope, rather than the despair that strikes Jean at the sight of the flowers in his hands. “I bet she didn't leave the thorns on.”

"No," Marco says, "But she didn't throw it at me, she just tossed it and I happened to be sitting right by the dance floor."

Jean raises his eyebrows. If it had just been Krista's bouquet maybe he could have believed that, but there was no way Ymir going long and nailing him in the face could have been anything other than deliberate and, while she could have decided to do it after Krista's toss coincidentally went to Marco, knowing what their friends think of them makes him suspicious of both of them.

But there’s no way to explain that to Marco without explaining what everybody else knows about Jean’s feelings. So he deflects.

“What about you? You’ve been in demand all night, so why abandon your admirers? Are you avoiding the dancing because Daz has some sort of jealousy issue and you don’t want it to get back to him?” Jean prods. Marco’s current boyfriend mostly strikes him as kind of spineless, but he is very clingy — so much so that Jean is surprised Marco doesn’t have him as a plus one since he seemed the type who would insist.

He waits for Marco to joke about being all danced out or Connie stepping on his feet or even just say he wanted some air; there’s a small traitorous part that’s hoping Marco will say he’d rather sit in the cold with Jean than be the life of the party, but he’s gotten used to ignoring that part of him.

Finally, Marco says, “We broke up.”

Jean drops Ymir’s bouquet, the already battered flowers tumbling away into the darkness.

“What?”

For two years Marco has been with Daz and, dull as the guy is, he’s always seemed to make Marco happy and so Jean has done his best to seem supportive. The thought of Marco spending the rest of his life what that guy was horrifying, but the thought of Marco spending the rest of his life with anybody else was horrifying and Jean knew he’d just have to live with it.

“What did he do?”

Protective anger surges within him, though he’s not sure what answer he’s dreading hearing more, that the asshole did something shitty that forced Marco to end things or that the guy was stupid enough to dump Marco, as if he could ever do any better.

Marco sighs. “He proposed.”

The way Jean’s blood turns to ice definitely makes him a terrible friend. “Oh…”

“I said no.”

“You…” Jean shakes his head. “And you broke up because of that.”

“It was just before we were due to come here,” Marco explains. “I told him it would shitty to announce an engagement at a friend's wedding, but he accused me of making excuses. That I could have said yes, but just not mentioned it here.”

“Pretty shitty of him to expect you to keep big news like that a secret from your friends,” Jean remarks, and oh does it feel good to be allowed to call that behaviour out for what it is. Years ago he’d resolved never to criticise Marco’s boyfriends while they were dating him, it wasn’t fair to Marco to have to listen to words spurred by Jean’s jealousy, but the point when it’s all over and he gets to encourage Marco to vent and let out his own frustrations at the same time is something he desperately relies on. But while him breaking up with Daz is a relief, the discovery that he proposed to Marco is another chilling reminder that one day there will be a relationship that won’t end, that Jean will have to bottle up all the jealousy and hold on to it for the rest of his life.

“Maybe, but he asked if I’d say yes if he proposed again after the wedding,” Marco admits. “And I couldn’t answer.”

“So you’re not ready to be married,” Jean says. “That’s normal, there’s no rush.”

“But I am ready. And he said if I didn’t want that with him then he didn’t see much point in sticking with the relationship. And he was right. Why stay when I didn’t love him?” Marco admits. “Or, I didn’t love him enough to marry him. If he hadn’t done it, I would have sooner or later. I… you saw Ymir and Krista today. They’re getting married because they love each other more than anything. I want that. And Daz wasn’t that for me. I knew he wasn’t, but I kept hanging on and hoping that would change but I think if it was going to happen it would have by now. So it was time to end things.”

“Oh. I…” Jean stares at Marco, lost for words. He wants to offer comfort, the end of a relationship is never painless no matter what the reason, but he has no idea what the appropriate words are for somebody who’s realised they don’t love their partner of two years enough to marry them. Jean’s never even got to the moving in together stage of a relationship, he has no context for this. “That sucks.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he grimaces at how pathetically inadequate they are, but Marco gives a weak chuckle.

“It’s for the best. It’s just hard, I wish I could have loved him enough, he deserves somebody like that and I… I want to settle down,” Marco explains, “That probably sounds ridiculous to you—”

“That’s not true,” Jean interjects.

“What?”

“I—” Jean fumbles for words. He hadn’t meant to interrupt, the correction had just slipped from his lips. “Of course I understand. If the right person was willing, I’d settle down in a heartbeat.”

Marco’s brow wrinkles. “Really? Because your past relationships—”

“It’s like you said, there’s no point settling for somebody who isn’t the right one. But unlike you, I don’t wait to see if I’ll fall for somebody after I know it’s not going to happen,” Jean explains, though he figures it’s probably simpler not to get into the fact he’s long since accepted that nobody else could compare to Marco and the relationships he’s had were mostly about the physical and a little about not making it too obvious that he’s hopelessly infatuated with somebody he can never have. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want love.”

“I… truly? It’s hard to imagine you in a domestic relationship,” Marco says. “I always figured you played the field because you liked the party-boy bed-hopping lifestyle.”

Jean laughs and then flinches at how bitter it sounds. Strange to think of his discontent making him seem like a player to Marco when everybody else can see his pining for what it is. “Y’know, I always wanted a dog.”

“Uh… okay?” Marco wrinkles his nose in confusion and the adorableness is almost enough to sidetrack Jean.

“When I was little, I was desperate for one,” he continues. “But my mother said no. She said it wouldn’t be fair, because I was too young to be fully responsible for it and she couldn’t be responsible for it on her own. At the time I was really mad about it, but then I got older and I thought about getting a dog and I realised she was right, because it would just be me and so if I got sick or whatever there’d be nobody to do all the stuff it needed, like feeding and walking it and shit.”

“I’d walk your dog for you,” Marco offers, but Jean shakes his head. He knows Marco would and honestly any of his friends would step up as a one off but that’s not the point.

“Sure you would now, but circumstances change,” he explains, “To have a dog I’d need somebody to rely on long-term, to be settled down with somebody who would be a partner before all the other obligations.”

“I’d walk your dog for you,” Marco repeats, clearly not getting Jean’s attempt at illustrating how much better things would be with a steady partner at all. “Jean, have you really been wanting a dog but not getting one all these years because you think nobody would help you look after it?”

It’s an achingly sweet thought, that Marco could be the partner Jean wants him to be, but, “What if the next person you date is allergic to dogs and doesn’t want you getting fur on your clothes?”

Marco blinks. “I… I’d buy a lint roller?”

Jean shakes his head. “What if they were deathly allergic?”

“I like dogs,” Marco replies. “It’s unfortunate but I’m not sure I’d be compatible with somebody who couldn’t have me be around them. Especially if it would mean restricting my time with friends who have dogs.”

“None of your friends do have dogs,” Jean points out. “So that’s not an issue.”

“But you want a dog.”

“Urgh… okay, forget about the dog,” Jean says. “This point is, I’m not opposed to being settled down, of course I don’t want to be alone forever, but I’m not going to try and force it with anybody who isn’t the person I’m in love with. So I can’t have a dog,” because it’s too much responsibility for one person alone and Marco might be keen to help him out now but eventually he’ll find a partner and have things in his life that come before being there for Jean.

Shit.

Losing Marco isn’t something Jean can avoid forever.

Maybe Daz is out of the picture, but Marco wants to be with somebody and sooner or later he will fall in love enough to get married and everybody says that the person you marry should also be your best friend and that’s going to put Jean out of a role.

Is this was Krista was trying to tell him by throwing her bouquet Marco’s way? To accept the fact his days with Marco are numbered because even he isn’t the next to be married, it’s bound to be soon.

But then why would Ymir throw her bouquet at Jean?

“I don’t want to forget about the dog,” Marco persists. “It sounds important to you and… wait, the person you’re in love with?”

“The dog was just an example,” Jean explains. “I accepted that situation years ago, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, but you said the person,” Marco says. “Not somebody you’re in love with, like it might happen in the future. The. Specific. You’re… there’s somebody you actually want to settle down with?”

Damn Marco’s intelligence. Jean could lie, but Marco is too smart to be brushed off with bullshit for long.

And he’s going to lose Marco anyway.

Why not go out with a bang?

Jean shifts on the tiles to face Marco, who is staring at him in unabashed shock, as if Jean being in love is so outlandish when he has been for years, and then he gives in the way he’s been falling for years.

But the moment his lips make contact with Marco’s, Jean feels his chest lurch with doubt. He might be losing Marco regardless, but even if the hurt is all the same, keeping his mouth shut as they drifted apart would probably be a more dignified way to go than the rejection he’s about to receive or, god help him, not being rejected and serving as a rebound as Marco gets over Daz. But it’s too late to take the kiss back now and if he’s going down in flames, he may as well enjoy these last moments, so Jean reaches up, runs his hands of Marco’s chest and the broad planes of muscle there, uncaring that he’s messing up Marco’s tux as he clutches at the material, hauling Marco closer.

If this is going to be the end, he’s taking the best memory he can with him.

A dying man couldn’t kiss with any more desperation, he needs to savour every moment of contact with Marco’s lips far more than he needs air, stealing every second that he can and securing the memories of this moment even if had can’t lay claim to Marco like he wants. He plunges onwards, memorising the taste of Marco and the feel of the chip in his left incisor, hands exploring everywhere he can reach.

Every liberty he takes is with the assurance that Marco has the strength to push him away, this is selfish and it’s wrong and it’s going to destroy their friendship, but he wouldn’t be doing it if he thought he risked crossing the line between throwing himself at Marco and pushing himself on him. But Marco isn’t forcing him away, not when Jean tangles a hand in his hair and then takes advantage of his gasp of surprise to deepen the kiss, tasting what he’s spent years longing for. He leans in closer, pressing their bodies together until he can feel Marco’s heat radiating against him, until they’re touching everywhere they can be while still fully suited, and even with his impending doom surely seconds away the thrill of it fizzed through him more dizzyingly that any amount of champagne.

And the crash back to earth when Marco pulls away is worse than any hangover.

“We can’t,” Marco blurts, and Jean’s heart crumbles. Two simple words, the rejection and destruction of everything he’s longed for. But he’d known they were coming, and at least Marco cutting him off now means Jean’s not about self destruct by letting himself become the rebound.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, turning away. “I…” He owes Marco a thousand apologies for destroying their friendship like this, for the fact that what they’ve built together since adolescence has been tainted from the start by Jean’s lies and dreams of more. But if trying to say anything more he’s terrified tears are going to spill out alongside the declaration, and if he can do one final thing for their friendship, it ought to be letting it die with its remaining shreds of dignity.

“It’s fine.” Though Marco sounds anything but. “It’s… weddings, they make people do strange things, I know. But Jean, I don’t do casual,” he explains, as if Jean was the sort of person to just casually fling himself at his best friend of fifteen years. “And I… I really can’t do casual with you.”

“I… casual?” Could it be that simple? Could he let Marco believe that the kiss was a moment of wedding induced madness and hold on to the friendship a little longer?

No.

There has been enough deceit in their friendship. It’s time to let go. “Marco… I’ve wanted that for years,” Jean confesses. “I’m sorry. I… fuck… I don’t get weird at weddings, I’ve hardly been to any other weddings and I’ve never really cared about them, but I saw you standing there today and I wished you weren’t there to support Krista. I wanted you to be waiting up there for me.” Jean groans, fighting the catch in his chest that threatens tears. Marco deserves an explanation without the dramatics. “I… I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t have done that. But that person I’m in love with, the person I’d settle down with if I could, it’s you. I wouldn’t have… fuck, whatever else you might think of me, please don’t believe I’d risk fucking up the friendship I have with you over something casual.”

He stands then, because he doesn’t want to burden Marco with any more of his feelings than he already has, but his focus is so intently on Marco and on his own pain that he forgets for a moment where they are, slipping and pinwheeling his arms for balance as one foot lands in the gutter and leave him teetering on the edge.

“Careful!” Marco gasps out, leaping to his own feet and reaching out to steady Jean, who shudders at his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, stumbling towards the door that will lead him back into the building. But there’s no way he can return to the party now. Fuck. To the wedding. To Krista and Ymir’s special day that he’s just tainted by spilling his feelings all over their best man.

“Don’t.” Marco sounds shaken, sounds overwhelmed, and it hurts Jean to have done this to him, no amount of the importance of honesty can change the fact that this confession was a selfish act.

“I won’t. I don’t expect you… I’m so sorry,” he trips again, though he’s away from the edge now. It was cruel to inflict this on Marco, to put him in a position where he’d feel obliged to give some sort of response. This heartache is Jean’s burden to bear.

“No,” Marco says, and the firmness in his voice brings Jean to a halt. “Stop apologising. Jean…”

He’s helpless. He’s always been helpless when it comes to Marco. Every instinct he has is telling him to flee, for the good of both of them, but Marco’s tone commands him to stay and so his feet are locked in place.

“How many?”

“What?”

“You said you’d wanted to kiss me for years. How many years?”

Jean grimaces. “Please don’t make me say it,” he implores. He will, if Marco needs him to, but tonight has gone badly enough without sharing just how long his feelings have been corrupting his side of their friendship.

Marco’s voice is soft as he says, “That long?”

Fuck.

Of course he’d know. Jean’s reluctance has been as damming as the truth.

“Marco, I’m sor—”

“I said don’t apologise,” Marco snaps. “Fuck!”

Jean flinches at the viciousness in his tone. Marco rarely curses at all, let alone with such fury and passion.

“Why didn’t you ever show it?” Marco demands.

“I did!” Jean cries, spinning back to face him. Fuck. He had tried, he’d done as much as he could but in the end restraint had seemed best. “Everyone knew but you. Why do you think Ymir targeted me after you caught the first bouquet? Because she knew and she was rubbing it in. But you were never even interested enough to notice.”

He’s breathless, shaking, unsure of the sudden surge of rage that’s flooded him at Marco’s accusatory tone. Does he really think Jean has never wanted to be up front before? If he’d thought for a moment that a move would be welcomed he might have dared, but he had to protect their friendship first.

Marco stares at him. “I… I lied,” he says, words tumbling out of his mouth in a hurry.

“What?”

“Earlier, about Krista and the bouquet. I deliberately stood in a group so she couldn’t throw it to me specifically, because when we were getting ready she’d said she was going to throw it in my direction.”

“Right after you turned down Daz’s proposal?” Jean asks. Had he not shared the news with Krista? Perhaps he thought it would bring her down during wedding prep, but it’s hard to imagine Krista being so insensitive.

“I… she knew I wasn’t as torn up about it as I ought to be,” Marco says. “But she said she wanted to pass on the luck that had helped her get Ymir to commit, as repayment for all them help I’d been. Which I thought was weird because anybody could see that Ymir has been head over heels from day one she just took her time about speaking up.”

God, Jean remembers those days. The pining and Ymir’s second guessing if Krista was even into girls or just very friendly. Followed by her insufferable smugness when she’d finally asked Krista out and been accepted, and her insistent suggestions that Jean follow her example, as if it working out for her a guarantee that the direct approach would always be a success.

“And now, with you… sometimes it felt like there was something there, but I ignored it,” Marco admits and Jean winces. Is this confirmation of what he’d always feared? That Marco’s obliviousness was just an attempt to let Jean down gently, which he’s now ruined by spilling his feelings all over Marco anyway.

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Jean says.

“Stop apologising. No, don’t apologise for apologising either. Damn, Jean, what I’m trying to say is that I wanted you,” Marco explains. “But I wanted to settle down too, and you were jumping from hook-up to hook-up and laughing at every romantic display you crossed paths with. I thought I couldn’t have both, and it seemed wrong to want you but want you to change.”

“You…” Jean gapes. The thought of Marco having wanted him has tremulous hope blossoming within him, but it’s unsettling to think his attempts to distract himself from his unreturned interest in Marco might have been the exact thing keeping Marco at bay all these years. But no, it has to be a fairly recent development. Gawky school age Jean couldn’t have appealed to anyone, and he’s not oblivious to the fact there was a reason that he only attracted dirt-bags in college — his messed up attitude during those years practically served as a welcome mat. Marco’s interest must be far newer than his own and he can’t fall into the trap of thinking maybe it would have been better for him to wait around alone in the hopes that Marco would someday want him, living his life was the right call, but the thought of it resulting in him missing his shot… “Wanted?”

Marco bites his lip. “I… I don’t know. I wanted you except for the fact you would never settle down, you sometimes seemed like you were interested in me, but never that you were serious about it, but if that’s something you could do, something you want to do…”

“With you?” Jean had told himself that he wasn’t going to push this any further, but that was before Marco had given any indication that he might be receptive to the right sort of persistence. “I’d love too.”

I love you.

And perhaps Marco hears the double meaning and welcomes it, or perhaps that would be too much but fortunately he hasn’t noticed the intensity behind Jean’s words, because he smiles, small and slow but full of hope as he reaches out and takes Jean’s hand.

“So, about that dog…”


End file.
